


How Do I

by DataAngel (TheNinth)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNinth/pseuds/DataAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic_Promptly fill: Sherlock BBC, Mycroft, realizing his brother wasn't just depressed, but Depressed, and not knowing what to do. Suggested by <span></span><a href="http://wrabbit.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://wrabbit.dreamwidth.org/"><b>wrabbit</b></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	How Do I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/gifts).



"Sherlock, you can't keep sulking like this. You're upsetting mummy." Mycroft stood at the foot of his brother's bed, arms folded across his chest and making an effort to hold in his expanding waistline. He was home from University at mummy's request (" _Do something with him, please_.") and just knew Sherlock would mention his weight.

Sherlock turned his face from the wall and sniffed loudly. He wrinkled his nose so deeply that his nostrils flared and his brow furrowed. His mouth was relaxed, Mycroft noted. Not the usual stubborn set to his jaw -- the position that made his cheeks hollow and his cheekbones stand out. 

And then Mycroft looked at him -- really looked at him and noticed the sallow skin under his eyes. The almost grey cast to his skin. The slight trembles in those long fingers. 

Sherlock turned his face to the wall. He didn't even say "Fuck off, Mike," his usual "brotherly" greeting.

Mycroft quickly scanned the room. Dust on the violin. Evaporated liquids in the chemistry table. Sheet music spread across the desk, the orderly notes degenerating into a helpless, heavy scrawl of angry black strokes. It was suddenly as easy to read as if Sherlock had written down words.

This was not Sherlock's usual teenage angst. This was not Sherlock "in a mood," protesting some perceived injustice, or overly-dramatic reaction to some imagined slight. This was true depression. Depression with a capital and possibly underlined ( _And now who's being overly-dramatic_? Mycroft scolded himself).

Mycroft gently moved Sherlock's feet from the edge of the bed and sat down. There were no cutting remarks about his weight or his habit of rushing home at a moment's notice when mummy called. There was nothing except the long, slow breaths. Sherlock wasn't asleep. He was just incapable of talking or even sitting up.

A knot tied itself around Mycroft's heart. It threatened to strangle him. Hot pain settled in his intestines and forced bile up. Mycroft swallowed hard and stared down at his shoes, one hand resting on Sherlock's skinny ankle. He was glad that Sherlock wasn't moving, wasn't looking, wasn't seeing him with his usual razor-sharp gaze.

How could he fix this? How could he repair his damaged little brother? He wasn't crying, he told himself. He absolutely wasn't crying, even when the tears dripped silently from the end of his nose.


End file.
